by Kari Gregg
“Of course not.” Aidan shifted Garrick’s streaming wrist so that rich scarlet spattered, wasted, to the floor. “Your price is dear. Many will die.”
“More lives would be sacrificed if the rebellion failed or, God forbid, the war marched endlessly on.” He fisted his hand so that his muscles strained, forcing his blood from the wound with greater haste. “You would not have expected me to sell my freedom so meanly.”
“Even this,” Aidan said, tipping his head to the blood pooling on the stone below, “doesn’t buy your freedom.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Just your loyalty.”
“You have that,” Garrick said, the first tugs of faintness dragging at him. “You always have.”
“Perhaps.”
“There is no perhaps. Luc was a rebel, so I became a rebel.”
Aidan shrugged. “Before Luc, then.”
“Before him, no man was more tightly bound in chains than I. You were shackled by blood.” He swayed, crippling lethargy sweeping over him. “What enslaved me was far stronger: love. The kind of love that is difficult to sever and impossible to destroy.”
“Impossible?” Aidan shifted the barbed fingertip over his own wrist. “Still?”
Garrick blinked him into bleary focus. “Still.”
Aidan hissed as he punctured the unblemished flesh of his wrist.
Garrick stared, transfixed, at the lush crimson pouring from the small, neat hole that pierced Aidan’s wrist. He inhaled to take in the metallic scent. Startling, the hunger that the sight and scent of the elder’s blood birthed inside him even after so long.
With more effort than he would’ve expected, he lifted his chin and stared directly into Aidan’s dark eyes. “I need your blood.”
Aidan’s gaze on him gleamed dark and triumphant. “Then take it.”
Garrick’s head dipped to the wound.
His body unclenched at his first draw on Aidan’s wrist. His muscles uncoiled. Fear that had held him captive long centuries abruptly loosened. The relief, to be finally free if only to serve another master, made him giddy. “They won’t snare me again. Not now.”
“Speak to me in the way of our people, Garrick.” Aidan urged his mouth back to the wound.
He didn’t consider refusing him. “I’m free of them.” Joyful wonder burst through him like sunlight through a storm cloud. Invigorated him, nourishing his soul as Aidan’s blood restored his body. “Finally—forever—free.”
“Yes. Today, you are truly one of us.” He felt Aidan’s smile in the thrum of his pulse. “Unless one of them kills me to break the blood bond between us, anyway.”
Garrick recoiled, the pit dropping out of his stomach so suddenly even Aidan’s influence couldn’t prevent his wild-eyed stare.
The corner of Aidan’s mouth tipped to flash a crooked grin. He ungently nudged Garrick’s mouth with his still streaming wrist. “Drink. The more my blood runs in you, the more vigorous your tie to me becomes.”
“Your position is too precarious to risk a meager sampling. Drink deeply.”
He drank, but terror squeezed his chest. He couldn’t breathe. “They wouldn’t.”
But he knew in his heart they would try. Garrick was not so naive as to believe the masters would let him go easily. He understood them, what they were capable of, too well. “They can’t.”
“You focused too blindly on your goal. That single-mindedness was necessary to attain it, but now that you have, you must steel yourself.” Aidan’s fingers whispered through his hair. “The slaughter of our headhunters, the abduction of Luc, these are just the beginning. Far worse awaits us—and you. Stay on your guard, Garrick. Be ready.”
“We won’t desert you. Remember that.”
He shivered, his fear a tangible thing. “The rebellion needs you. We need you. I can’t let you die. Not for me.”
“Your concern is moving. Truly, it is.”
“I’m very glad I didn’t kill you,” he said, his voice low and satisfied. “But you worry needlessly. The masters won’t kill me. My father wouldn’t allow it.”
Garrick’s body jerked. His mouth tore from the wound, a dazed rumble slipping from his lips as, eyes wide and uncomprehending, he gaped at Aidan.
“You didn’t think me capable of organizing our motley crew of weak, half-starved slaves, did you? If you’ll recall, the rebellion failed under my so-called leadership.” He rubbed at his wrist, careful to hold it away from his body so no blood dripped on his clothing. “After the masters scattered us, our hopes resurrected only because of his guidance. His governance. He told me how to regather them, what to do to transform slaves to soldiers.”
“Every prince must have his king, Garrick.”
His jaw worked up and down, but his voice failed him. Words flitted in and out of his mind, but none of them made sense. “Jesus,” he finally managed on a prolonged wheeze.
“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain. Exodus 20:7.” Aidan glowered at him. “God will not hold you guiltless. And your king even less so. Mind your tongue, vampyr.”
He staggered, reeling. His strength left his body in a frenetic rush.
His butt kissed the floor, but his eyes didn’t leave Aidan’s.
“You have a king?”
The prince’s scowl shifted to sardonic amusement. “We do.”
His hands rose to his temples to hold his chaotic thoughts inside him, physically if necessary. “I have a king.”
Aidan nodded. “Yes.”
He rubbed furiously at his eyes, sure there must be some manner of trickery in Aidan’s response.
“You’ve my blood in you, Garrick. Link with me and know what I speak is true.”
But Garrick didn’t need the link.
He knew Aidan wouldn’t lie about this.
He just couldn’t wrap his mind around it.
A king.
No.
Not just a king.
He knew what this meant, the only thing it could possibly mean.
An ancient.
The rebellion, the cause of the slaves, had been championed by an ancient.
He’d never dared to entertain the notion that any of those stories could be real. Humans had their folklore, seemed to need fantastical myths and legends. His species derived from them, so why should vampyr be any different? Silly vampyr mythology. Or so he’d convinced himself.
He’d been so sure.
“He’s quite fascinated with you, Garrick, has been from the beginning.”
He shook his head. Violently.
Aidan grinned so wide he beamed. “Take another minute to steady yourself. He warned me the shock would be brutal to you especially.”
Garrick breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. “Do the masters kno—” He frowned. “No. Of course, they don’t. If they knew, they’d go to ground and take our enslaved young with them.”
“Awareness of him would embolden our unmated males for the fight, but even they cannot know, can never suspect. They may turn and warn the dark masters, become masters themselves. You must never speak of him outside the safety of the council.” Aidan’s hand fell to Garrick’s shoulder. “You and I, we are the key. He’s told me that much. All was uncertain until you mated, until we knew you’d survive, but you have joined us. You are one of us now in every way.
“We’ve hard, bloody work ahead.” Aidan squeezed his shoulder. “But we will win the war, Garrick. We will, all of us, be free.”
He gradually returned Aidan’s jubilant smile.
For the first time, Garrick believed.
Chapter Twenty-one
Caravans of RVs, campers, and battered trucks pulled into park facilities within a fifty-mile radius of Gettysburg. Jobs were abandoned, homes left vacant.
A traveling carnival cancelled Atlanta and steered eighteen-wheelers laden with Ferris wheel components and the mechanical detritus of amusement park rides to Pennsylvania. It was too
early to head north, too cold for locals to try their luck at darts, shriek inside Tilt-a-Whirls, or steal kisses from young wives tending toddlers on the merry-go-round. But Marsh Brothers Unlimited employed no less than three packs rigidly segregated by function: food vendors, game trailers, and ride operators. All three had elected to answer Peter’s call.
Loners on motorcycles answered as well.
A pair of alphas shepherded two whelps to the female’s mother in Maryland. They ignored her sires’ condemning disapproval for the thousandth time, and grinning at one another, checked into a discount motel.
America’s weres converged on southwestern Pennsylvania.
A Walmart parking lot provided adequate cover for transportation and extra vehicles. A rusty blue pickup arrived every thirty minutes, and small clusters of silent men and women climbed into the back. They piled out again when the truck reached a crossroads nearby. They faded into neat rows of shoulder-high pines on a Christmas tree farm. Some stripped, piling neatly folded clothes near a marker known only to them before shifting. Others waited.
As one, man or beast, they headed west.
A mile away, Peter divided them with a silent jerk of his chin. Men and women to the left, shifted weres to the right.
* * *
“I’ll organize the packs, separate those providing blood from those who come to fight,” Peter said, picking at a loose stone in the Arizona dirt.
“We’ll need warriors more,” Aidan said. “We should feed from humans to protect your numbers.”
“I disagree. Peter swears the weres will come. I believe him.” Garrick’s eyes swept the cave, stone walls flickering yellows from the campfire. “There’s great power in were blood, Aidan. We’ll need every advantage.”
“You’ll need both, warriors and providers,” Peter said. “The ones who can shift in spite of the blood loss will fill gaps during the attack.”
The prince frowned, the stiff set of his shoulders reluctant. “Agreed.”
* * *
Arm looped under the sagging shoulder of a too-pale blonde, Tim dragged his fellow were to a corner of a neighboring field. His sweeping gaze ensured a plentiful supply of meat. Steam from several pulpy chunks melted islands of violent green in grass otherwise encased in a crust of frost. Some of the resting weres picked at the bloody sinew. Others lay on the ground or leaned against trees, lungs fighting for breath. A few groaned, bones elongating, chest compressing as they shifted.
The shaggy were pivoted and returned to the feeding base. A vampyr hissed to his left, releasing a brother were who fell to the bitterly cold ground. Flush with power, the vampyr stumbled too.
Tim’s lips stretched to a smile.
Pussy.
Peter yanked him to a stop when he grabbed the fallen were. “It’s time.”
He nodded.
When Tim finished shifting, the vampyr had cleared the feeding base, and a magnificent gray animal, Peter’s beast, loped yards ahead to a thicket of underbrush where the acrid scent of weres focused and intensified.
Fear and bloodlust zinged through Tim’s re-formed body like an electrical charge.
He followed.
Peter’s lipless, misshapen mouth peeled back to reveal sharply pointed teeth. He growled, nipped at a couple weres to cement dominance, sniffed at others. Tim smelled a few prancing weres as well. The greetings were ritual, necessary. His acute nose detected the subtle musk of their excitement. The baser part of his beast insisted he revel in the heady mix of foreign scents, but Tim resisted.
His preternatural eyes studied his alpha instead, every growl, every sniff, every proud toss of Peter’s head. Because one day, he too would lead a pack. If tonight ended favorably, that day could come soon.
Peter’s blunted nose finally lifted. His breath huffed three short bursts that plumed the cold air.
The weres, as a unit, slinked to the tree line, spread out at even intervals. Taking position, Tim stared across barren fields used for tourist parking during summer reenactments and awaited the signal.
A barn stood against the wispy reds and oranges of the setting sun a couple of acres distant. The structure towered four stories, weathered gray with time. Acres of flatland stretched out before him, intersected only by a two-lane road little traveled except during the first week of July.
Tim had minored in history at Tulane, enjoyed all aspects of it. He had especially taken to studying the Civil War, so he imagined this was how Armistead and Picket had felt facing the enemy across a similar plot of land, only stingy miles distant. General Picket had been excited, sure of victory. Tim recognized that same eager confidence in the vibrating body of the were next to him.
Tim was more realistic.
Like Armistead, he stared across that field and saw bodies littered, hot blood steaming before it’d been spilled.
They’d be slaughtered.
But the weres must make this charge. For the rebel vampyr, it was a just a rescue operation. For a beloved friend of a much-needed leader, sure, but this battle was minor, wouldn’t affect their war.
For the weres, this battle meant everything.
To pass the time—how much longer could they afford to wait?—he counted shadows lingering near the barn door. Five. No six. He shook his head when a pair of slaves exited the barn, sticking close to its silhouette as the sun dipped to the horizon. The pair made the grand total eight.
Eight to their ninety-four.
The last rays of the sun glinted off the metal barrels of automatic weapons held in the slaves’ hands. The guns, no doubt, had been armed with silver.
They’d all be armed with silver.
Tim and the rest of the weres would just have to run like hell across the flat acres and pray the enemy were poor shots.
It wasn’t a baseless hope.
Bullets didn’t kill vampyr.
Swords did.
Swords that cut through sinew and vertebrae to sever heads from the enemy’s nigh-immortal body.
Neither rogues, headhunters, or dark masters had bothered with anything more modern than the traditional two-handed sword. Because to this day, vampyr were their own worst enemies. Marksmanship was only important for taking down weres. That skill hadn’t merited pursuing among vampyr since they’d dipped arrowheads in silver and laced the shafts with wolfsbane.
At Peter’s quiet coughing bark, Tim sprang forward. He stayed low to the ground, his paws racing to match the sudden dash of his heartbeat. Weres on either side of him stayed close to the ground too, but surprise carried them pitifully short yards before one of the vampyr at the barn shouted.
Bullets pinged the frozen earth twenty feet in front of him.
Tim let loose the feral snarl he’d been fighting to contain and, forgoing safety for speed, rose precious inches from the earth. The extra height gave his legs freedom to sprint. His strides lengthened, leaving several less courageous—or less foolhardy—weres behind him, but Tim didn’t care. The hunt was on him. Bloodlust jabbed him, catching him by the throat. Prodded him on. His mind focused on one thought and one thought only: prey ahead.
He growled in sheer joy.
And ran.
His pace didn’t falter when the first sharp whine met his ears, followed by the scent of fresh blood in his nostrils. An awkward, crashing roll of animal flesh resounded behind him, followed by a thin scream as a silver bullet forced the shift back to human form.
Poor bastard.
Without his beast, the enemy could pick him off at their leisure.
Another cry.
Another were fell.
Tim veered as bullets chewed the ground around him, ducked to the left, and almost tripped over the were flanking him. Blood jetted from the hole that bloomed in the beast’s temple. The spray of bullets tore the foreleg off the next were in formation, and Tim leaped over his body, twisted in midair to reorient his path to the barn, and raced on.
Where were the rebel’s infernal headhunters?
Down the increasingl
y ragged line, Peter’s gray beast darted forward. His alpha’s murderous howl cracked the frosty air. Forcing his legs to pump harder, faster, Tim threw back his head and joined the chorus, spurring himself and the others on the last hundred yards.
Prey ahead.
Fresh kill ahead.
Meat.
Ahead.
Peter grinned at him across empty feet that had minutes before been crowded with sprinting weres. He jerked his head toward a vampyr servant who’d foolishly advanced past the immediate proximity of the barn. His weapon spit silver fire at them.
Tim huffed feral acknowledgment, then swerved so that his forward momentum carried him where his alpha needed him to be.
The vampyr never saw him coming.
Tim veered at a steep angle from the slave’s left, bunched his hind legs, and sprang.
His powerful jaws crunched through bone while screams from the rear of the barn reached them.
* * *
“Their search for you decimated the headhunters,” Malachi said. “Few pairs survived.”
“We can’t risk those still intact, even for you, Garrick,” the prince said.
“I wouldn’t let you.” He nuzzled Kate, let her scent comfort him. “The war must go on, whatever happens to Luc. Or me.”
“Yes. The war must continue.” Aidan exhaled a frustrated breath. “Malachi will match up single hunters as quickly as possible.”
Malachi studied the rough terrain map they’d arranged on the cave floor. A large rock rested in the center, a stand-in for the barn where Luc was being held. Twigs marked outlying rows of trees, and a shallow furrow scratched in the dirt represented the secondary road that passed by the master’s improvised prison. Malachi speared a stick into the ground behind the rock. “We’ll hit them there, from the west. When the were diversion builds steam—”
“It’s no diversion, vampyr.” Peter smiled, a sly curve of his mouth. “We’ll break through their forward defenses. Count on it.”
“Good.” Malachi grunted. “Because launching an attack against four masters is suicide.”
